


I'm hard but I'm friendly baby

by leiascully



Series: Five Times Kara Thrace Kissed A Girl And Liked It [5]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: smut_tuesdays, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-30
Updated: 2008-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Admiral sets a pretty table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm hard but I'm friendly baby

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S2  
> A/N: Happy [**smut_tuesdays**](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/)! Here's the last of this fun little series. Title is from Alanis Morrissette's "Hand In My Pocket", of course. Many thanks to [**queenzulu**](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/) and [**luxemburger**](http://luxemburger.livejournal.com/) for being my sounding boards and betas, and for putting up with lots of links to pages on [Babeland](http://www.babeland.com) so that I could compare harnesses.  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

You have to admit, the Admiral sets a pretty table. The wine glasses are real crystal, from the way they chime as Pegasus rumbles around you, and there's an array of silverware you wouldn't have believed without seeing it. You've never had the time or the patience to learn that kind of manners, but you just follow her lead and start from the outside: short fork, long fork, what the hell. The wine is good, and the food is excellent, and to your surprise, it isn't awkward talking to her. When she'd invited you to dinner, you'd expected Lee and Fisk and Shaw to be there too, the whole upper rank, but you presented yourself there was only the table set for two and Admiral Cain with her dark hair pulled back, looking almost gracious.

You chat about Pegasus over soup (it's strange and modern, after Galactica, and the crew is hostile as hell, but you don't tell her that), your military history over the beef, her military history over the salad (she serves Tauron-style, backwards), and it isn't much of a surprise when, after chocolate torte (where did she get the ingredients?), she sets down her cup of bitter coffee and takes your chin in her hand and kisses you. Her mouth is so certain that you don't even want to fight.

"You haven't been with a woman," she says, when she releases you. It isn't a question.

"No more than any other drunk cadet, sir," you say, toying with one of the forks. "A couple of kisses." There's a slow burn working its way down from your lips to your hips and it's more than the wine. You're almost surprised you're not surprised, but then again, you've heard the rumors same as the rest of the fleet. She's was frakking the toaster prisoner, you've heard, or maybe that bitchy computer whiz, Shaw, or maybe half the women on her damn ship. You knew who she was. You were intrigued. When you sat down at her table, you made your choice.

"Good," she says. "Then I'll have all of you."

"That's a little bit presumptuous, sir," you say and toss back the last of your wine. "I'm not that cheap a date."

"My sources say otherwise," she says with a smirk.

"Ouch, sir." You hold out your glass and she fills it from a carafe. You wonder how she keeps all this crystal whole. Probably with sheer force of will. You think that bodes well, somehow, for the inevitable end to this evening. You're even looking forward to it.

"How about it, Captain?" That isn't really a question either. Suddenly you're glad that you took the trouble to wash before you came here. It was to show up Lee that you actually bathed all over and washed and dried your hair, so he wouldn't snip at you later, but now you're glad that when she undoes all those buttons and strips you out of your uniform, she won't narrow her eyes at the faint reek of the cockpit on your skin. Day after day living in the plasticene closeness of your flightsuit has made your skin soft (nowhere for moisture to go), but after hours of CAP and flight instruction on top, you feel like the tail end of an Aerelon summer. You're glad you're fresh for this.

You hold out your wrists to her. She purses her lips, a satisfied look in her eyes already, and she unsnaps the buckles at the wrists of your duty blues; nothing but a gesture, but enough for her to grab the loose fabric inside your elbows and pull you close enough to devote herself to unbuttoning your placket. She lifts her chin and you take her meaning and kiss her, fumbling at her uniform as she unbuttons yours with cool steady fingers. You want to go slow, to tease her, but the brush of her fingertips at the base of your neck as your collar falls open urges you on, and you crash your mouth into hers and pull at her lips as you tug the buttons loose. Nobody would give you top marks for style on this one, but you get the job done. You're kissing down the side of her neck, unrucking her jacket from her trousers, and before you've finished wrestling her out of her jacket, you can see the peaks of her nipples under her tanks. She slips her hands under the shoulders of your jacket and slides it down your arms easy as Sunday morning, and you swear into her mouth at the sheer efficiency of her.

All at once she pushes you away. "Undress yourself, Captain."

"I believe that's your privilege, sir," you demur, licking your swollen lips.

"I delegated," she says, sitting back in her chair, chin in her hand. "I would like you to undress yourself, please."

You purse your lips to argue, but the set of her jaw doesn't look like she's kidding, so you shrug and balance on one foot and then the other to undo your shoes and drop them on the floor, socks on top of them. You unbutton your trousers and shake the creases carefully together, standing there in your knickers and your tanks, pretending the heat of her gaze isn't what's making your skin prickle into goosebumps. The creases are perfect long before you lay the trousers over the back of your chair and catch the hem of your tank, peeling off one layer at a time. You're in your bra and knickers in front of her.

"Go on," she says.

"The privileges of rank, huh, sir?" you say, and strip off your bra. Your breasts are heavy on your chest, your nipples tight. You can feel the slickness between your legs as you move. Your cunt is swollen in anticipation.

"One of them," she says cooly, but her fist has slipped from under her chin to rest between her breasts, and her thumb shifts over the top of her chest.

"Well, that's about convinced me to be a good little girl and scamper up that ladder," you say, shimmying out of your knickers and dropping them with a flourish on top of the heap of your clothes. They were damp in your hand; your clothes are going to smell like sex. Lee's going to ride you about your crumpled jacket tomorrow, but you don't want to bend down and retrieve it. Standing at parade rest in front of the admiral is bad enough, or good enough; anyway, you've always loved taking souvenirs, even if they're your own. Cain stands, stalks over to you with an odd stiff grace, and circles you. You can feel her eyes sliding over you like hands, down your back and over your ass, down between your thighs, nudging your legs apart. She breathes on the nape of your neck and you shiver.

"You're nicely turned out after all, Captain," she says, her mouth close to your ear.

"Glad I pass muster, sir," you say, and she comes around to stand in front of you. She runs one finger along the curve of your breast and down your stomach to your navel.

"Undress me."

"Yes, sir," you say with a better will than usual, and make sure your palms brush as much of her skin as possible as you push your hands under her tanks, rumpling them around her breasts. You take the liberty of following your hands with your lips, tasting each of her ribs, sliding your mouth across the tense muscles of her belly. Through her bra, you trace the hard bud of her nipple, your teeth flat against the cotton.

"Faster, Captain," she said, her voice husky, and you give up the game of teasing her and strip her out of her uniform as fast as you can, kissing her hip as you peel off her knickers. She's kicking off her shoes as she pushes you toward her rack, laying you out on the mattress like a display piece, her head between your legs before you can breathe. The first lap of her tongue has your back arching - gods, she's good, and she knows just where to touch you - and you twist your fingers into her hair, trying to keep from squealing. She scrapes her nails lightly over the backs of your thighs and it's all you can do not to writhe, to stay still under the flicker of her tongue and the scrape of her teeth and gods, suddenly the thrust of her fingers inside you, insistent, demanding. You close your eyes: the ship is bowing around you, space and time collapsing like you're jumping, but you know you're going nowhere, here in Cain's bunk, pinned hips and shoulders to the mattress by pleasure.

She's frakking you like it's the end of the world all over again, hard and fast and you're shaking to pieces under her hands and her tongue. You're so swollen around her fingers that you can feel your own walls rubbing against each other when she pulls out for a moment, but she twists her wrist and crooks her fingers just the right way and she's found that spot and you can't help squealing, a high-pitched sound that would humiliate you if you could think, but your head is full of stars and your body's full of her. She pushes against that spot, her tongue flicking over you, and then she's sucking and pushing at the same time and you'd swear that the only thing keeping you from flying into space is your hands clenched hard in her bedspread and her hair and her fingers hooked into your cunt. You're gasping for breath, borne up higher and higher on the pressure of fingers and tongue until you're at the point of no return, and gods, the fall is gonna kill you. You grit your teeth, making some kind of keening noise, and then everything explodes, and you're shivering and thrasing and you'll just be shrapnel if this keeps up. She shakes out of your grip and throws her body across yours, her thigh pressed hard between your legs, her mouth against yours, and holds you together.

"Lords of Kobol," you say, when you can speak again.

She smirks. "You live up to your reputation, Captain."

"I do my best, sir." You run your hands down her arms. "I imagine it's time to return the favor."

She slides half-off you, her elbow between your breasts. She dips her head briefly to catch your nipple in her mouth and then releases you and sizes you up. "Given your inexperience, I had something a little different in mind."

"Fire away," you say, touching her back. She's damp with sweat and her skin is hot and slick against yours like you've both been flying combat. You want to touch her. You want to frak her. You're not sure of your hands and your mouth - you can take care of yourself, and lords know the men haven't complained - but you want to push inside her, to watch her face change. You'll do whatever she wants now; you're loose and lazy and you want to make her moan just as loud as you did. "I live outside the box."

"So I hear," she says, and rolls out of bed, her spine very straight as she crosses to a chest of drawers and takes out what appears to be a collection of red straps and a tiny bottle. You sit up to see better. She reaches in again and comes up with a dildo. She shakes the straps and suddenly you see it's a harness. She slots the dildo in and holds the whole contraption up for your examination. You swallow hard, your eyes wide. Your fingers tingle and your mouth is dry with desire. "What do you say, Captain?"

"I want to wear it." The words are out of your mouth before you can think.

She raises one eyebrow. "Nervous?"

"Maybe I just want to frak you." You clasp your hands together in your lap, which has the fortunate effect of pushing your breasts together; your cleavage catches her eye as she looks you over and she nods.

"Come over here," she says, and you obey, feeling flat-footed as you cross to her, your knees still weak.

"How does this go?" you ask, and she smiles wickedly and buckles you into the thing with a startling efficiency.

"Comfortable?" she asks, adjusting the straps and slicking the dildo with the contents of the bottle, and you shift, nodding. It's surprising how sexy it feels, the red leather against your skin and the base of the dildo pressing against your clit. The straps don't restrain your movement, but they give you the feel of pushing against something; you like that. You pull her against you, the dildo trapped between your bodies. She shifts around it and pushes her hand down the front of the harness and suddenly the dildo's vibrating. You moan, startled, and she grins and reaches down, holding herself open and pushing onto the dildo until her body is lined up against yours from breast to knee. You pull back a bit and push back into her, relishing the pressure and the way her eyes narrow.

"Good?" you ask.

"Let's take this to the bed," she says. "I want you to frak me, Captain."

"Wilco, sir," you say, in a breathy way. Funny how wearing a fake dick makes you feel more girly, but more powerful too: she's clearly the one in charge, but you're the one who gets to frak her. You push her toward the bed and take the bottle from her, lubing her with your fingers and dropping the bottle on the headboard. She's on her back with her knees up, expectant, and you lean over her to kiss her breasts, feeling the dildo nudging at her. Still sucking at her breast, you open her up with your fingers and push into her, thrusting slowly. She hisses a little through her teeth. The harness is more natural and more awkward than you'd expected. It's difficult to set a rhythm when you keep leaning up to dive into her mouth, but you like frakking her, feeling her hips rise under yours, even when that throws off your tempo. It may not be your dick, but it still feels good, the way it rubs against you when you're deep in her. You wobble, trying to get the knack of it, and she grunts.

"Sorry," you say. "This is new."

"Let's try something else," she says, and you pull out of her reluctantly. She has you on your back before you can think about it and she's kneeling over you. "Don't worry, Captain." She kisses you and sinks down slowly, her hips notching into yours. You love the weight of her, and the way her eyes close as she adjusts, her lip trapped between her teeth. You put your hands on her hips to steady her.

"Better," she says, opening her eyes. Her hands are braced by your ribs, and she leans down to kiss you before she starts rocking. You can't help your hips pushing up, even though she's bearing down on you, but after a moment you're so hypnotized by watching her that you stop moving. She's frakking herself on the toy that by now feels like it should be part of you, because the way she moves and the way her eyes are locked on yours it's like she's frakking you. She's beautiful above you: her hair has come loose and hangs in her face, her breasts are perfect in your hands, and the flush of color on her makes her look more alive than you've ever seen her, and more human. The harness rubs against you until you squirm under it, desperate. You stroke her breasts and her sides and the slight softness of her belly and tighten your fingers on her hips, urging her on. The buzz goes all through your body, slow and deep, and your cunt tightens just watching her. She bites her lip, a moan in her throat that doesn't quite make it into the air.

"Come on," you whisper, "come on, I want to hear you." You cluster your fingers at the base of her throat.

She gasps a little, her eyes narrowing, but the next moan you hear and feel, and you feel the shiver that goes through her body. She sits up a little, rocking faster, pushing harder, making you groan too. Her breasts quiver with the tension building in her.

"Come on," you urge, "come on," rolling your hips against her as best you can, stiff as a board, waiting for your release, hoping for hers. She leans way back and reaches behind her, pushing her fingers into your cunt, and gods, it's enough, and you're coming under her and around her and shoving up hard into her. You reach up, touching her, and she pulls her fingers out of you and puts them into your mouth instead; you suck hard and she moans again, deep and sexy, sending another thrill through you as you tremble out the last of your pleasure. She's pushing back, shifting over you, leaning forward and back, and you can see it when she comes, the O of her mouth, the widening of her eyes, the rush of color up her chest, and you lap at her fingers and feel your own muscles clenching again as the toy presses against your mound and the buzzing shocks your oversensitive system. She sags against you, both of you panting hard, too hot but too wrung out to move. She fumbles under your harness, the pressure almost painful, and stops the vibrations.

"Thanks," you say between gasps. "Too much."

"Good," she says, and lays her head on your shoulder. You're still joined at the hip and it's almost unbearably intimate. You turn your head and kiss her, easy as breathing, and she nips sweetly at your mouth. When her breathing slows, she rouses herself and pushes up off you, collapsing next to you in her rack. She undoes the buckles on the harness with idle fingers and you strip the thing off and put it on the headboard, the coolness of the air making you ache after all that heat.

"Lords," you say. "If that's what women are like, I see your point."

"You're a clever girl," she says. "I knew you'd come around."

"Or at least come," you crack, and she smiles, eyes closed.

"Dismissed, Captain."

"Love 'em and leave 'em, sir," you say, pushing yourself up. It would sting if it weren't her; as it is, you're surprised she let you linger this long, with her reputation. What you want now is your own rack and room to stretch out.

"You're free to come back any time," she says, rolling onto her stomach.

"Practice makes perfect," you say, pulling on your knickers. You dress with her watching you, doing up just enough buttons to be presentable, and then throw her a salute. "Admiral. It's been a pleasure."

"You are a problem, aren't you?" she says, but there's a curve to her lips that belies her words. "You can let yourself out."

You salute again and drag open the hatch. It closes behind you with a satisfying click and you start towards the officers' bunk and then change your mind. Two baths in one day - lords, after that, you need it, or every man in the CAP will be sniffing you out, and you snicker to yourself to think of the look on Lee's face if you told him. But you won't. You'll wash her off your skin, but you'll crash into your rack with her fingerprints inside you, and you'll go back and let her make you ring like crystal all over again.

Pegasus isn't so bad after all.


End file.
